Buckinghamshire mother reveals daily physical and emotional abuse from her autistic nine-year-old son who dominates family life and school routine

Every morning starts the same way. I open my eyes and, before I’ve even had a sip of tea, I’m tense. Waiting. Listening.

I’ve become skilled at covering up bruises. Concealer hides the black eyes.

Long sleeves disguise the finger-shaped marks on my arms.

Split lips can be explained away. I’ve had years of practice.

But the person hurting me isn’t a violent partner. He’s my nine-year-old son.

Henry has severe autism, along with generalised anxiety.

And our home in Buckinghamshire — once full of noise, chaos and laughter from four children — now feels like a pressure cooker that could explode at any moment.

The Child I Dreamed Of

All I ever wanted was to be a mum. I had a good job in IT sales earning £30,000 a year.

I met my husband Nick in 2008, and we bonded over one big shared dream: a large, lively family.

We got it. Amber, now 16. George, 13. Freya, 11.

Those early years were everything I’d imagined — messy Sunday mornings, river walks, car trips to the seaside.

Then Henry was born in July 2017. He was beautiful. Calm. Warm. Perfect.

I struggle to reconcile that baby with the child who now punches, kicks and lashes out with such force that I sometimes wonder whether one day he’ll seriously injure me — or worse.

When Things Started to Change

By the time Henry was three, I knew something wasn’t right.

His speech was delayed. He didn’t play like other children. He became aggressive.

At four, he tried to bolt out of the front door. When his sister stopped him, he attacked her.

I intervened — and he turned on me. It took 45 minutes for him to calm down.

That was the moment I knew our lives had changed.

What followed was the long, exhausting process so many British families know too well — referrals, waiting lists, assessments for an Education, Health and Care Plan.

A year passed before a formal diagnosis arrived.

Eventually, after he smashed a window at school and began absconding, Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services stepped in.

Within days, he was diagnosed with autism and generalised anxiety.

Living With Meltdowns and Medication

Henry’s autism comes with something called Pathological Demand Avoidance, meaning even simple requests — “put your shoes on,” “stop hitting” — can trigger explosive meltdowns.

We’ve been told to follow a “zero demand” approach. No raised voices. No direct commands.

Imagine trying to stay calm and silent while your child is kicking you in the ribs.

He’s been prescribed clonidine to manage impulsivity and melatonin to help him sleep.

The melatonin worked for a while. Now it doesn’t.

He sleeps between Nick and me every night. He won’t even use the bathroom without me waiting outside.

When he spirals, I use a technique called “squashing” — lying on top of him to provide deep pressure that calms his nervous system.

It sounds extreme. It feels extreme. But sometimes it’s the only thing that works.

The Cost to Our Family

I had to give up my job. Henry can only manage around four hours a week at mainstream school, and there’s no funding for a one-to-one assistant.

Our income halved overnight. Nick works exhausting hours as a one-man IT troubleshooter.

Our car broke down months ago — we can’t afford repairs.

Our Victorian house is falling apart, not helped by the fact Henry has destroyed three televisions, doors, windows and electrical sockets.

I rarely leave the house. I’ve developed chronic vitamin D deficiency because I’m indoors so much.

I’m on Citalopram for depression and anxiety. I’ve gained two stone.

I’ve been diagnosed with fibromyalgia — stress-related chronic pain.

Friends can’t visit. The older children can’t invite mates round.

Weekends aren’t family outings — they’re shifts. One of us always stays home with Henry.

There is no respite.

The Siblings Left in the Shadows

The hardest part isn’t the bruises. It’s my other children.

My eldest son has hit Henry back twice in self-defence.

He once said quietly, “Henry’s ruined my life.”

My youngest daughter sobbed recently, saying she wakes up wishing she were dead because she hates the atmosphere in our house.

Those words broke me more than any physical blow.

The Thoughts You’re Not Supposed to Admit

There’s a taboo around saying this out loud. Mothers are meant to be endlessly patient, endlessly loving.

I do love Henry. When he tells me, “You’re the best mummy ever,” I cling to it.

But I also resent what our life has become. I’ve thought about foster care.

Boarding school. Divorce, just so Nick and I might get a break through shared custody.

In my darkest hours, I’ve wondered whether my death would unlock more support for my children.

Then the guilt hits. Crushing and immediate.

A System Under Strain

Across England, families raising autistic children with complex behavioural needs often face long waits for specialist school placements.

Funding for teaching assistants has been cut in many areas.

CAMHS services remain overstretched, with families frequently reporting delays in accessing therapy and psychiatric reviews.

There is no specialist school place available locally for Henry.

So he remains in mainstream education part-time — a compromise that helps no one fully.

His psychiatrist calls every two weeks. We see a paediatrician twice a year.

Occupational therapy is in place.

And yet, our daily reality remains survival.

What’s Next?

Right now, Henry is in a slightly better phase. His clonidine dosage has been increased, and he has stopped attacking his siblings — for now.

But the questions loom:

• Will we ever secure a specialist school placement?

• Can we access meaningful respite care before the strain destroys our marriage entirely?

• What happens when Henry grows bigger and stronger?

• Who will care for him when we no longer can?

My greatest fear isn’t for myself. It’s that one day his behaviour could land him in serious trouble — even prison — a place he simply wouldn’t survive.

For now, we carry on. Not thriving. Not planning. Just enduring.

Summary

A mother in Buckinghamshire has shared the hidden reality of living with her nine-year-old son, Henry, who has severe autism and generalised anxiety.

Daily violent meltdowns have left her physically injured, forced her to give up her career, and placed enormous emotional and financial strain on the family.

Despite medication, CAMHS support and part-time schooling, Henry’s behaviour continues to dominate family life, leaving his siblings distressed and his parents exhausted.

The family faces an uncertain future, with limited specialist support available and growing concerns about what lies ahead.